


a step up

by mallory



Category: American (US) Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Female Reader, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Mild Sexual Content, Original Character(s), Reader-Insert, Temper Tantrums
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 19:26:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19836958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallory/pseuds/mallory
Summary: “The only time I’d use ‘step’ and ‘dad’ in a sentence is when I’d say that you saw Bee needed a dad and stepped up.” You smile, cupping his cheek. “You’re her father. Full stop.”





	a step up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cadsingh77](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadsingh77/gifts).



> —who prompted: _Chris meeting/dating/marrying single mom? Possible having other kids, getting protective over when the first child is referred to as his step-kid and saying she’s his child too?_

“I miss you, Papa!” Beatrice shouts into the phone, gripping your wrist and keeping you from pulling it away.

Apparently, your three year old doesn’t understand the concept of speaker phone.

You shush her as Chris chuckles, and Dodger looks up from his stuffed lion, where he’s in his bed by the living room fireplace.

“I miss you too, Bee,” Chris says.

Maya squeals at the sound of his voice, bouncing in your lap as she waves her arms. The bunny teething rattle in her grip jingles musically.

Dodger comes over where you’re seated in front of the couch to investigate all the sounds, sniffing the girls.

“And I miss you, Mayabean.” There’s no mistaking the beam in his voice.

Beatrice leans against your propped knee and bobs like she’s preparing to leap across the room. “Do you miss Mama too?” She grins toothily at you.

“Of course I do. I miss all three of my girls.”

“I’m wearing my PJs, and Mama said it’s almost bedtime.”

You smooth back her unruly hair. It was a half hour chore getting her to brush her teeth and dressed for bed; she threw a tantrum through it all, demanding for Chris to do it for her. It didn’t help that Maya started getting fussy, agitated by Beatrice’s shouts and cries.

“I wanna snuggy and story.”

“I know, Bumblebee,” he says. “Did you help Mama pick up your toys?”

“Yes!” She gestures to the neat living room, as if he can see for himself.

“Good girl. I’m three minutes away. You think you can wait up for me?”

She gasps. “Three minutes—Papa, I have to be at the window to see you!” She takes off, and Dodger scrambles after her.

You laugh. “You have time, Bee.”

“No,” she shouts, her voice echoing down the hall. “I wanna be ready!”

“Is she gone?” he asks with a chuckle.

“Yep. I think she misunderstood minutes for seconds.”

“You okay? You sound tired.”

Your heart flutters. “It’s always hardest the days before you come home.” It’s never easy when he’s away filming or travelling for press junkets, but you’ve been juggling the kids without Chris for two months—half of Maya’s little life—and the anticipation of his return this past week has been mentally draining.

He sighs, the sound exhausted and sad. “I know, hon. But it’s over now.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Me neither. Kiss you in a few.”

You smile. “Not a second later.” You hang up and pocket your phone into your sweatpants, and prop Maya on your hip. On your way out of the living room, you switch the lights off and trek down the wide hallway to the front of the house.

In the foyer, Beatrice stands on the entry way’s chaise lounge, peering through one of the windows flanking the double doors. Her face and hands are pressed up against it, breath fogging up the glass.

At the sound of your footsteps, she turns. “He’s not here yet.”

Maya rests her head on your shoulder, her free hand scrunching your sleep shirt.

After dinner, the three of you sat out by the pool and watched the sparkling water in hopes of winding Beatrice down for the night. She was all cuddly until you made the mistake of reminding her Chris would be home tonight.

Dodger perks up a moment before Beatrice gasps as a car’s headlights sweep in through the windows. She bounces on the lounge as he sniffs the gap under the front doors. “Papa’s home, Papa’s home!” She slides off and races to the door, jiggling the handle.

You help her out, flicking on the front porch lights and unlocking the door. “Step back, please.”

“Hurry!” As soon as the door’s wide enough, she and Dodger squeeze through, and she throws her arms up. “Papa!”

The car door opens, flooding the inside with light, and Chris grins and waves.

Dodger takes off and Beatrice follows after, her bare feet thumping against the wooden porch.

“Careful,” you call out as she takes the three steps down one foot at a time.

Chris steps out of the car, and Dodger jumps at his legs. Chris tries to give him a few greeting pats as the dog whines and licks his hand. His attention strays just as Beatrice launches herself at him. He catches her with ease and throws her in the air.

Her giggles float up into the night sky as she spreads out like a starfish. As soon as she’s in his arms again, she wraps her limbs around him, burying her face in his neck.

You take a step out onto the porch, adjusting Maya in your hold as he draws close, smiling gaze trained on you.

He reaches you, toe to toe. The porch light flickers behind his head, and the shadows can’t hide the contentment melting his travel-weary expression. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you say on a breath.

He thumbs your chin and kisses you softly.

A wave of relief floods your system so violently you reach out to grip him but close your fingers around Beatrice’s thigh instead. Your breath stutters into the lingering kiss, and as your lips part with a soft, wet click, Chris pulls you into a side hug.

You press against his solid length, his heavy arm holding you tight, like he never wants to let go.

A cool breeze slashes through the thin fabric of your sleepwear, fallen leaves chattering across the porch floor. Maya burrows further into you, kicking her legs.

“I’m cold,” Beatrice says, shoving her arms into the back of Chris’ bomber jacket.

You pull away. “Let’s go inside,” you say.

“Bubba!” Beatrice calls, her voice echoing down the quiet street.

Dodger looks up from munching on some grass in the front lawn.

She throws out an arm and curls her fingers in a ‘come here’ gesture. “Le’s go insi—”

Chris covers her mouth with a laugh. “Where’s the mute button on this thing?”

“Right here.” You poke her tummy and she giggles behind his hand.

He frowns, tilting his head. “Huh. Must be faulty.”

Dodger ambles onto the porch, and you all step inside. Chris closes the door behind him and sets Beatrice down. He runs a hand over Maya’s soft head as she hums through the fist in her drooling mouth.

“She’s so big.”

You shift her higher and press your nose into her chubby cheek. You point to him and whisper, “Who’s that?”

Maya’s big eyes blink up at him as her mouth opens.

“Maya, do you remember? It’s Papa.”

She coos a gibberish of sounds, and you tickle her tummy. A squeaking giggle escapes, and the biggest smile blossoms across Chris’ face. Not a moment later, a yawn pulls her little face, and his expression twists with a dangerously beautiful mix of emotions. Tenderness and guilt.

“I think it’s bedtime,” you say.

He holds out his hands. “Let me put her to bed.”

“No.” Beatrice whimpers, tugging on his jeans. “Papa, put _me_.”

“Bee,” you say softly, putting a soothing hand to the back of her head. If she starts crying again you’re going to as well.

Chris cradles Maya close to his chest and squats down to Beatrice’s level. “Hey, now, Bumblebee.” Dodger inserts his head between them, and Chris nudges him back. “’Scuse me.”

You beckon the dog over and distract him with scratches. Poor guy just wants some time with Chris. You all do.

“Soon as I’m done, I’ll be right there to tuck you in. Pinky promise.” He holds it out, and the length of her pinky barely wraps around half the girth of his. “Extra promise.” They kiss their thumbs. “Okay?”

She sniffles, rubbing her eye as she nods.

“Okay, good girl. Kiss your baby sister goodnight.”

Beatrice cups Maya’s ear and presses a kiss to an eyebrow.

“Come on, Bee,” you say, holding out a hand. “Let’s go pick out a story for Papa to read you.”

She slips her hand in yours, and you head upstairs to her room on the opposite end of the hall.

Like the rest of the house, Beatrice’s room is painted a soft grey with white trimmings. But instead of the sophisticated brown accent in the living room or the calming blue in the master bedroom, her bedroom pops with yellows and greens in an outdoor theme to match her [treehouse bed frame](https://imagesvc.meredithcorp.io/v3/mm/image?url=https%3A%2F%2Fcdn-image.realsimple.com%2Fsites%2Fdefault%2Ffiles%2Fstyles%2Fmedium_2x%2Fpublic%2F1525053235%2Fnashville-home-kids-room_0.jpg%3Fitok%3D5y6X1MMT%261530124004&q=85).

You dim the lights, and she drops your hand and walks over to the window nook where her books are stored inside of the bench.

She drags out _Peter Pan,_ the illustrated interactive edition and thickest book she owns.

You hide your smile. You can’t exactly blame her for wanting to squeeze as much out of bedtime as possible. Chris has been away more than he’s been home in the last six months. Though he FaceTimes with her almost every night to read her a quick story, she definitely misses the cuddles.

You take it from her and place it on the bed through one of the frames. “Do you want to brush your hair or do you want me to do it?”

She hems and haws, shuffling her feet as she lifts her sleep shirt and fiddles with it.

Over at her dresser, you pick up her hairbrush and hand it to her.

“No. You do it.”

You take a seat in the window nook and she slots herself between your legs. You brush her hair as she babbles an impromptu tune, stopping only to protest every time the bristles snag on a knot. You’re getting the last of her knots out when Chris comes in with Dodger, who goes sniffing around the room, as if to look for the monsters Beatrice insists come out of the shadows the nights Chris isn’t home.

“Maya looks more like you every second,” he says, placing the baby monitor on the dresser. “When she smiles at me with those eyes, my heart melts.”

You smile, and his gaze softens. “She’s got your lashes.” Long and full.

“And hopefully not my hairline.”

You laugh as Beatrice twists around to face you.

“What about me?” she asks.

You tap her little nose. “You have my nose.”

“And Papa?”

You and Chris share a glance.

It’s not like you hid the fact that Chris isn’t her biological father; you’ve told her a few times since she could speak. She’s three, and he’s the only father she’s ever known—she just can’t quite grasp the concept yet.

He approaches her and kneels, bracing himself on your thighs. “You have everything I taught you.”

Her face scrunches as she leans her back against your inner thigh. “Like what?”

“Your manners, your love for Disney, how you laugh.”

You chuckle. She definitely mimics the head thrown back, left boob grab laugh.

Beatrice holds his cheeks between her hands. Her fingers sink into the beard. “But I want your face too.”

He points to himself. “This face? Nah, you don’t want this ugly thing.”

“Papa, you’re the most beautiful thing I ever see.”

“Oh, thank you, sweet girl.” His eyes crinkle with his smile. “You’re making me blush.”

She cards her fingers through his facial hair. “I want the bead.”

You and Chris laugh.

She smooshes his cheeks together. “What’s so _funny_?”

“Why do you want Papa’s beard?” you ask, leaning down to wrap your arms around her from behind.

“Because my face is so cold! I wish I was a bear and have a bead like you, Papa.”

“But you can’t be a bear,” Chris exclaims. “You’re my little Bumblebee!”

“I wanna be a bear!”—she throws up clawed fingers—“Grr! Rar!”

He laughs. “Okay, if you’re a bear, then I’m the lumberjack who lives in the woods and befriends her.”

“We’re _best_ friends.”

“You bring me logs and I feed you cookies.”

Beatrice giggles. “Bears don’t eat _cookies_ , silly. They eat _honey_.”

“Oh, well, then we’re in luck because the lumberjack’s beautiful wife finds the sweetest honey in all the land.” He winks at you.

You shake your head with a smile. “Hey, isn’t it hibernating season?”

“Oh yeah.” Chris pulls to his feet with a grunt, knees cracking. “Miss Bear, it’s time to crawl into your den for some Z’s.” As you stand too, he picks her up and tips her horizontal, like he would carry a surfboard. While she’s distracted, he taps your ass. “I’ll get some of that honey later tonight, though, right?” he murmurs under Beatrice’s squeals.

You chuckle. “Maybe if you get the bear to sleep.”

“Consider it done.”

You take the baby monitor on your way out as Beatrice asks if Dodger can sleep with her (despite having asked you earlier tonight and your answer was no).

The grainy video feed shows a small lump in the cot as Maya snoozes. A little leg twitches, and you smile.

With the kids down for the count, you have four hours to yourself until Chris’ interview airs, the last of it for this project.

It’s been hard, you’re not going to lie. Being pregnant with Maya was a lovely surprise—it’s just the timing has been shit, to say the least; between the pregnancy, labour and the first few months with a newborn baby, all on top of a curious toddler. It’s a lot to deal with when Chris’ presence has been spotty.

You’ve been through this before with Beatrice, and things were much more difficult back then.

(You can’t count how many times you stared into the mirror, at the little bump that grew every day, teetering on the line between excitement and fear, between wondering if you should have waited until you met the right guy to settle down or if you did the right thing by choosing to walk into that fertility clinic one morning and order a batch of sperm.)

You collapse onto the living room couch and a dull stab to your back makes you jerk up with a wince. Digging under the cushion, you pull out a shape-sorting cube toy. Beatrice ‘cleaning up’ her toys. You put the cube on the coffee table beside the baby monitor and grab the TV remote.

Being a first time mother was certainly a million times scarier, but it’s also scary how much you’ve come to rely on Chris in the three years you’ve known him.

(It’s been a whirlwind romance that allowed no quarter on your emotions or fears—dating someone with such a well-known name and revealing to him you were a new mother, juggling between your career, baby and romantic life, hitting the breaks after turning down Chris’ proposal only a year into your relationship and fearing the end of the only stable, loving relationship you had.)

Of course, that’s not to say you’ve been entirely alone; with his family living in the same neighbourhood, you have a great support system, but it’s not the same as having Chris by your side every day. You have a feeling he thought so too, and that’s why you found yourself hosting weekly dinners for the in-laws over the last six months.

Nails click on the hardwood floors. They scuffle down the steps and patter toward the living room. Dodger sneezes nearby, and Chris whispers, “Bless you.”

Warmth covers your forehead, and you blink your eyes open to Chris’ smiling face. “You don’t have to stay up to watch it if you’re tired.” He nudges you further into the couch and joins you with a groan. “Getting out of that damn bed without waking her is getting harder on my back.”

You slip an arm over his waist and rub your fingers into the firm muscles.

He cuddles into you with a quiet moan, and you bury your face under his chin. Tobacco pricks your nose, a habit he only indulges in when he’s away from the girls. “Let’s go to bed,” he murmurs, his words buzzing against your forehead.

“It’s eight.”

He hums. “Let’s have a nap date.”

You snuggle into him. “Cute.”

“So?”

The both of you make quick work to make sure the house is locked up, turning off the lights along the way. You meet at the bottom of the staircase, which you climb together in the low light provided by the little lights every few steps. Dodger zooms past you, and he’s in his own bed by the time you reach the master bedroom.

While Chris switches the bedside table lights on, you turn off the baby monitor and head to the far corner of the room where Maya’s crib is set up. You brace yourself on the dark brown wood railing as Chris moves about the room behind you.

She’s fast asleep on her back, mouth parted, arms up by her head and fingers curled in loose fists. The sheep onesie Chris put her into matches the simple cloud-printed sheet over her mattress. She’s almost half the length of the crib now. Chris was right; she has grown a lot in the last two months.

“I’m gonna wash off the plane smell,” he murmurs.

“All right.” You trek toward the queen-sized bed, pull back the comforter and climb in.

He peels off his clothes and throws them in the direction of the ensuite where the hamper sits beside the door.

Soft snores drift over from the crib, and you share a smile.

Crossing the bedroom, he pulls out a fresh towel from the wardrobe and throws it over a shoulder. “I never thought snoring would be the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You chuckle. “Bee did that too when she was Maya’s age. Their nostrils are so small.”

“Oh my god, _tiny_.” He sits on the edge of the bed with a hand braced by your legs. “Maya fell asleep before I even put her to bed, and I just stared at her for the longest time.”

You stroke his arm, and he frowns down at it, shaking his head.

“She’s growing up so fast, I feel like I’ve missed out on so much.”

You curl your fingers around the veiny muscles of his inner forearm. “I know, baby. But she’s only four months. She has years and years ahead of her, and you have front row seats.”

He sighs. “I’m gonna shower. Join me?”

You make a throaty sound of protest. “Too comfy.”

He chuckles. “Okay. I’ll be quick.”

You turn on the TV mounted on the opposite wall and it opens to Netflix’s home screen. As the shower runs in the next room, your phone pings with a message from Deanna, a neighbour. Her son Tanner’s asking for a playdate tomorrow with Beatrice.

Funny how the two-year-old only asks to come around when Chris is home.

“Babe?” Chris calls.

You roll out of bed and trek across the room to stick your head into the bathroom. “What’s up?”

Through the glass that separates the [walk-in shower](http://www.thehollandbureau.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/Modern-Shower-Design.jpg) along the back wall to the rest of the bathroom, Chris drags a hand down his face under the waterfall shower head. “Where’s my shampoo?”

“Where it always is?”

“It’s not here.” He points to the shelf in the wall where the bath products are.

“I didn’t touch it. Where’s your luggage, did you unpack it?”

“It’s still in the car. But I didn’t bring the bottle with me.”

You walk to the vanity and take out a new one.

He steps out from behind the glass. “Thanks,” he says. His fingers cover yours over the bottle, and a cheeky glint flickers in his eyes as your gazes meet.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

He grins. “What? I’m just grabbing the bottle.” He tugs on you, and you brace your free hand on his wet chest with a laugh.

“ _Chris_.”

He takes a step forward, pushing your forearm along the sternum of his chest. Your fingers curl into the chest hair spattered across his pecs that heave as he inhales deeply.

Your mouth quirks, and you let your hand trail down. “Finish up in here.” He throbs in your grip. “I’ll be waiting.”

“Can you…?” His gaze drops to your lower body.

“Doc gave the all clear.”

“Give me three minutes.” He takes the shampoo without fanfare, a promise simmering in the heat of his gaze that smoulders in the pit of your stomach even as you lie in bed, clothes shed and bare legs brushing against each other like a male cricket rubbing its wings together.

The white noise of the running shower cuts off, and your ears ring in the remaining silence—that is, before muttered curses scatter through the crack in the door.

You sit up, but swallow the concern bubbling in your throat; Maya might wake.

The door whips open and Chris steps out in the buff. He switches off the light and hurries across the room. Beads of water glitter his skin as he jumps onto the bed, and you muffle your laugh.

He shushes you as he crawls on top of you and fits his pelvis between your legs. “Think you can keep quiet?”

“Better than you did at the Ruffalo’s farm.” You grind your hips up.

He exhales, grabbing the meaty flesh of your hip to urge your movements slower, firmer. “You played dirty.”

“Funny,” you whisper and peck his chin, “of all those noises you made, none of them sounded like protests.”

“Definitely not protesting.” He shudders, stuttering breath tumbling across your face. “I never did return the favour.” He trails kisses down the side of your face and pauses at your chest. His tongue and teeth swirl and nip at your sensitive nipples.

You gasp, clutching the damp hair at the back of his head. “That was over a year ago; you’ve returned it time and again.”

He hums, pressing a kiss to your sternum. “Remind me again, the last time?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. God, he wants you to think? _Now_? “Um… I was seven months.” The pregnancy and Chris’ absence had taken its toll. He came home for the weekend to surprise you, showering you with affection, massages and orgasms to relieve what he could of your discomforts.

He shoves his face in your belly and chuckles. “You came the second I touched you and then burst into tears.”

“I was overwhelmed.”

“And here I am thinking I was _that_ good.” He thumbs your stretch marks and slides lower. “Six months, baby. Six long months without your taste in my mouth, since I was inside of you.”

He puts his mouth on you, and your breathy moan gets caught in your throat. And though you don’t cum at the first touch, it’s so much more intense when you do. You strain and quiver against him, painfully silent as he sucks and strokes and licks and rubs.

A strangled sound tears from your throat, and you convulse against his unrelenting tongue, fingers clenched in his hair, and back bowed deep.

As he wrings out the last of your orgasm, you shudder, pushing him away as you drop back onto the bed with a shaky exhale.

He crawls up your wrecked body. In the feeble light, he hovers above you and licks his wet lips. “How do you feel?”

“Like that drunk emoji.”

He laughs. “Want another?”

You hum and pull him down for a lusty kiss. You lick your taste off his mouth. “No, I need to feel you.”

Chris cups the side of your face as a slight crease pinches his brow. “Tell me if it’s uncomfortable or I hur—”

You grab his ass and yank him against you. “Chris,” you mutter, a throaty plea wrecked with need and love.

He’s unhurried and gentle, gaze trained on your face as he moves above you. His biceps clench as he holds himself up, rolling his hips into you with smooth glides. Quiet sounds of pleasure spill from his open mouth, muffled only when he presses sloppy kisses to any skin he can reach.

And god, you’ve missed this. The intimacy and pleasure, feeling desired. You’ve missed him—his strength and love.

Your hands trail down the expanse of his back, his muscles rippling as he sways above you, hips thrusting sensual and deep, impatient and shallow. The hair on the tops of his thighs brush against the underside of yours, sending a mass of tingles scurrying up your body.

Shadows and light battle across the plains of his face, tight with a mix of concentration and pleasure.

His breath puffs against your mouth. “You okay?”

You nod, biting your lip.

“Love you,” he murmurs as he nudges against a sensitive patch.

Nails dig into his back, tearing a grunt from him. “Don’t stop,” you exclaim softly.

“Loving you or fucking you?”

“Boooth,” you say on a moan.

He rocks against you, shifting you up the bed. “You feel so good.” He kisses your chin, flattening your chest against his. His breath fans against your collarbone, doing little to cool your heating skin. “’M close.”

“Not yet.”

A hand slips down to rub you, and he mutters sweet and dirty words to help you along.

Breathing shallow and brisk, you tighten around him.

He groans, muffled and vibrating against your heated, damp skin.

You both crest, stiffening and arching against each other, frantic mouths fused together and swallowing each other’s sounds of gratification. Your limbs lock around him, holding him close and inside. Keeping him here.

Chris exhales against you as his body slackens, and he trails slow, lingering kisses across your face and down your neck. His soft, heavy length slips out.

A weak jolt shoots through you, and your legs press together.

He falls into the space beside you, arms open and ready as you roll into his side and fit yourself against him. He cups a breast and thumbs the sensitive nipple as a yawn pulls his expression. “How ’bout that nap date?”

Humming, you wriggle against him. His heart thumps under your hand. “I gotta clean up first.”

“Lemme help.” He starts to rise, but you curl fingers around his forearm.

“Relax, I’ve got it.” You wash up in the bathroom, and by the time you come back, he’s fast asleep. He’s lying on his stomach, mouth parted like Maya’s in her sleep. You climb in beside him and press your lips to his temple. His shampoo fills your lungs, and you melt against his warm strength.

He’s finally home.

Of course, it’s not like he never came back during the last six months of work. He took the first flight out any time he had more than a couple days off filming, and when you went into labour. A month between the end of filming and the beginning of the press junket was spent chasing Beatrice around and staring in wonder at every little breath Maya took.

He curls an arm around you and snuggles into you.

You blink heavy eyes at his sleeping face. Unfairly long lashes rest above his eye bags as his deep breaths puff against your skin, the tip of his cold nose pressed against your jaw.

It sucked every time he had to leave.

(Not to mention the heartbroken look on Beatrice’s face every time she saw his suitcase by the front door. You can’t count how many times you woke in the middle of the night to her climbing into your bed.)

But it was harder when he didn’t come home at all. Travelling takes a toll on him, so during the press junket that took him all over the country you’d sometimes gently suggest he stay in whatever city he was in so he didn’t have to fly back and forth for just a few hours at home at a time. Instead, he’d often FaceTime you with heavy eyes and an exhausted, raspy voice that he’d tried to conceal behind a beam for Beatrice’s sake.

The last thing you want is to cause him more stress or guilt than he already carries when he’s away from you and the girls.

Chris sighs in his sleep.

You stroke the bumblebee tattoo on the inside of his wrist. The public was unusually interested in it after he got it on Beatrice’s first birthday. It got to the point where he was asked about it in every interview he had during a press tour for a short film he directed. Chris explained the meaning behind it, but it wasn’t until he was on Jimmy Fallon when he showed them the video clip you took of Chris showing it to Beatrice for the first time.

Which reminds you.

Under the heavy arm thrown over you, you shift into a seated position and reach for the remote on the bedside table. You change the channel, and Chris’ bearded face fills the screen as his hushed voice bleeds from the speakers. The camera cuts to a wide shot, revealing the grey suit plastered to his frame.

“... grumpy face when you sh”—he grimaces—“I can’t say that word, can I?”

“No, no, no,” Jimmy says on a laugh. “You can’t—”

“Oh, I probably shouldn’t even… My kids…” He gestures to the camera with a crooked smile. “No, you know what? One day they’ll find this, and I know I’ll have sufficiently done my job in embarrassing them.”

Jimmy laughs, clapping his hands. “I like that. That’s sneaky parenting.”

“Okay, so you know that face you make, when you take a—when you go potty?”

The camera transitions to Questlove, who shakes his head and scrunches his face in a mix between disapproving and disgusted.

“Oh yeah, like—” Jimmy pulls a constipated look; squinty eyes and a grimace on his lips.

“ _Exactly_!” Chris says over the laughing audience. “Exactly! My daughter calls it ‘going grumpy.’”

He cackles. “Wait, isn’t your daughter four months old?”

“That’s Maya, yeah. No, as smart as she is, she can’t talk yet. It’s my oldest daughter, Bee; Beatrice. She’s three years.”

“Ohhh, oh—Your step-daughter.”

The laughter fades from Chris’ face, and in place he slides on a practiced polite smile.

(It’s an expression he’s cultivated over the years on the job, and it drives you absolutely crazy when he’d use it on you when he thinks you’re being ridiculous.)

He adjusts the tail of his red tie, lips pushing together as he squints. “Ye—Well, if you wanna be _technical_ about it.”

“How old was Beatrice when you met your wife?” Jimmy asks.

Chirs shifts in his seat, scratching his beard and propping an ankle on a knee. “Um, she was about two and a half months, a little younger than Maya is now.”

“It must be so tough, man, working for the last few months while [Name]’s home with the baby.”

“I mean, it’s never easy being away from my family. My wife’s a champ for holding down the fort. She’s always sending me photos and videos of the girls so I don’t miss out on everything.” He fiddles with his wedding band. “She’s amazing; an absolute trooper. But yeah… I miss them a lot, and holding them on my phone isn’t the same as holding them, you know?”

**_~ &~_ **

You feed Maya the last spoonful of purée broccoli and potato, and she murmurs, bashing her teething rattle against her high chair’s tray with one hand. The other is smeared with her breakfast from when she slapped her hand into the bowl not two seconds after you put it down in front of her. You grab the wipes on the island counter and clean her up before collecting the dishes and rounding the counter to place them in the sink.

Beside Maya and in her own high chair, Beatrice picks up a slice of watermelon and crushes it in her fist, juice spilling over her hand.

“Bee, please stop playing with your food.”

“Why?” she asks, holding it out so Dodger can lick at her.

Before you can respond (and lose an argument to a toddler), Chris struts in with hair standing every which way. “Gooood morning, my beautiful girls!” He places a sound kiss to Beatrice’s head.

“Papa,” she says with a milky grin. “Your hair is funny.”

“Is it?” He tilts his head side to side, pulling giggles out of her as the strands sway like branches on a windy day.

Chris moves on to Maya, who waves her arms with great enthusiasm under his attention. “What’s that?” he asks in an excited voice. He smooches her chubby cheek, and she giggles and shoves the rattle into her mouth. “Are your gummies sore? Is your first tooth coming in, honey?”

Maya babbles, chewing on the ring.

With a chuckle, he mops up the drool with her food-stained bib and rounds the island to wrap his arms around you from behind. “Mm… And an extra good morning for you,” he murmurs, nuzzling into the side of your neck before pressing a lingering kiss there.

You chuckle. “ _Someone_ ’s in a good mood.”

“After last night, of course I am.” He brushes the side of his beard against your cheek as a hand strokes your belly, still a bit pudgy from Maya. “How do you feel?”

You cuddle back into him. “Perfect.”

“What’re your plans today?”

Let’s see: cleaning the mess the girls have made, distracting them with toys while you make breakfast for you and Chris, putting them down for a nap, packing away the toys, hanging the laundry out to dry (as well as washing the ones he left in the suitcase still in his car), feeding them lunch, playing with them, figuring out the week’s lunch and dinner meals and buying the necessary groceries, the girls’ bathroom needs a good scrub down—It’s never ending. You close your eyes. “So many chores.”

“Write them down and we’ll split it.”

You shake your head, stroking his arm. “Take the kids for the morning. Spend time with them.”

Maya gestures to Beatrice and babbles.

“Leave lunch up to me,” Chris says.

“What’re you thinking?”

“Picnic in the park?”

“Sounds perfect.”

Beatrice holds out a small slice of watermelon, but there’s still about four inches between them. Dodger darts around, nose held up and mouth open, ready to catch the watermelon if she drops it. She leans out of her high chair.

“Bee,” you say, “no. You’re gonna fall.”

She settles back and shoves the slice into her mouth.

“Sandwiches?” you ask Chris as he braces his hands on the counter on either side of you.

“Yeah, but I’ll make them.”

“Thank you.”

He pecks your cheek.

Maya’s returned to banging her rattle against her tray, and Beatrice is kicking her feet and playing with the last of her breakfast as she begins singing the alphabet.

You turn in his arms and share a smile, suppressing your laughter.

As she gets to the middle of the song, where the quick jumble of letters are, you mouth along with her, “Armadillo pee.”

Chris drops his face to your shoulder as his own shakes with silent laughter. You cup the back of his head and press your smile into the side of his neck.

You’re bad parents for not correcting her, but it’s just too cute and hilarious. She’ll eventually figure it out.

He pulls back with a humming sigh. “Good luck with the chores.” He kisses your lips.

“Good luck with the munchkins.”

He chuckles, sneaks in one more kiss, and returns to the kids.

You grab the dish towel and set to cleaning up.

“What do you want to do today, Bumblebee?” he asks.

Beatrice’s head falls back. “Um!”

“Do you want to read? Or play doctor? Colour hunting?”

She gasps. “Yes!”

“All right then!” Chris pulls Beatrice out of her high chair. Maya’s already outstretching her arms and making grabby hands before he has a chance to set Beatrice on her feet. “Let’s get you girls cleaned up and dressed for adventure.”

“And sun scream, Papa!” She jumps, hitting his navel.

He winces. “If you were four inches shorter with a pitcher’s arm, Papa would be the one screaming.”

You laugh.

Chris props Maya on his waist. “Let’s go, love bugs.”

Beatrice skips alongside him out of the kitchen, with Dodger hot on their heels. Their voices and footsteps echo throughout the house as they climb the stairs.

You got a late start this morning, having accidentally slept in. Chris must’ve gotten to your alarm before you could wake and turn it off, because when you did wake an hour later, Maya was tucked between his side and arm. The safety rails attached to the bed were pulled up, and Chris was holding her morning bottle with his eyes closed. You took her and whispered for him to go back to sleep.

You’re mopping up watermelon juices from Beatrice’s high chair when the doorbell rings. Dodger barks, nails scampering across the wood flooring and pelting down the stairs. 

On the shelf above the stove, the tablet displaying the security feed to the front door reveals a woman in a sundress with a toddler in arm.

Deanna.

Shit.

You set the towel down and wipe your hands on your sweatpants as you move to answer it. Steeling yourself, you stretch on a smile and open the door. “Deanna, hi…!”

She grins. “Hey, girl!” She steps around Dodger, pausing for an air kiss, and sets Tanner down, who goes for the dog. “Where’s little Trixie?”

You bite back your scowl. Jesus Christ. “Um, sorry I didn’t reply to you last night, but I don’t think we can—”

“Babe?” Chris calls, and Deanna’s eyes light up.

“Hi Chris!” she shouts.

You can practically feel his shudder.

The floorboards creak, where the hallway closet is just out of sight. Beatrice whispers, and Chris shushes her.

If he thinks he can hide away until she leaves, he’s got another thing coming.

“Honey?” you prompt. “We have company.”

He appears at the top of the stairs with the girls in his arms.

“Tanny,” Beatrice shouts.

He waves back with great enthusiasm that his whole body wiggles.

“Deanna,” Chris says around a grimace trying so hard to be a smile. “Hey. Good to see you.” He plods down the stairs and glances almost accusingly at you.

You lift your shoulders.

“It’s so good to see you,” she says. “How are you?”

“Ah, you know. Busy, tired.”

She laughs. “Oh, don’t I know it.” She turns to you. “Balancing work and raising children is so difficult. Chris, you’re a Super Dad, I don’t know how you do it all.”

You bristle as he reaches the first floor and sets Beatrice down, who runs to Tanner and they babble in toddler talk.

“Actually,” Chris says, drawing close to drape an arm across your shoulders, “it’s a team effort.”

Maya squirms in his arms and reaches out for you.

“I’m sure you and your husband would say the same,” he continues as he transfers Maya into your arms.

She laughs. “Oh, no. My hubby’s useless with kids. Not like you.”

You cough to hide a snort. Her _hubby_ seemed perfectly capable with Tanner when she went on that work trip for a week. “Well, it was great to see you Deanna, as always. What time will you be back to pick Tanner up?”

“Oh, don’t be silly!” She pulls out a bottle of wine with a wink. “While the kids play, we’ll be having a little playdate of our own.”

It’s eight in the fucking morning.

(Then again, if you’re forced to hang out with her all day, a little alcohol would make her more tolerable.)

You smile. “Fun.”

Her face pinches with excitement. “Kitchen?”

“Yeah. Go on ahead, I need to change.”

Deanna herds the kids further into the house toward the kitchen, and you and Chris turn to each other.

“This is your fault,” he whispers.

“I forgot because _you_ distracted me.”

“Chris?” Deanna calls.

“Coming!” He takes Maya back and starts toward the kitchen, but not before muttering, “If you love me you’ll be down in ten.”

“Fine, but I’ll be milking that ten for all it’s worth.”

You climb the stairs and trek down the naturally-lit hallway down to the master bedroom to change into something more fit for unwanted company.

(Jeans and a t-shirt.)

As much as you don’t like the gossipy woman, Deanna’s harmless. Chris is her ‘celebrity crush’; it was one of the first things she said when she introduced herself the day you moved in next door to her. You were so enthused you’d made a friend already, but that quickly turned into dread because Deanna’s a little… too much.

She came by every day for a week to help you unpack—against your polite declines—and started planning a wedding for Tanner and Beatrice, convinced they’d grow up and fall in love. Throughout the week, neighbours popped by to drop off housewarming gifts, and after each left, Deanna felt it necessary to air out all their dirty laundry.

The smell of pancakes wafts your way before you step into the kitchen. The sizzling batter a steady sound over the kids playing in the playpen set up against the sliding door across the room. Chris is at the stove with Deanna seated at the clean island counter, staring at his broad back with her head propped on a fist and reaching for a strawberry in one of the three bowls in front of her.

You shake your head with a smile.

“How do you like it?” he asks, scraping the batter and flipping it over.

The crackling almost drowns out her sigh. “Firm.”

He turns. “What?”

She jolts up. “Uh, fluffy.”

You chuckle, walking toward Chris. And because you can (and maybe because a possessive heat curdles in your chest), you give him a little love tap to his ass.

He throws you an amused look.

From the corner of your eye, Deanna stills with a strawberry halfway to her mouth, gaze trained on you both. You press up against his forearm and murmur, “She wants you.”

Rolling his eyes, he hooks an arm around your neck and tugs you against him. “Is this your way of peeing on me?”

You laugh, wrapping your arms around his middle and resting your chin on him. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he repeats around a smile and kisses your forehead. “Only you get to have me.”

“Good.” You squeeze him and let go. You approach the island and brace yourself on your elbows, smiling at her. “So how’ve you been?”

“Oh my god. So busy.” She leans forward, a wolfish gleam in her eye. “You know Tian, right? Last week she threw her daughter a birthday party and refused to let Hailey’s son have cake because he’d ‘get too ADD.’ And have you seen Leslie’s new LV purse? As if she can afford that on her hubby’s salary.” She picks up a grape. “What about you?”

“I’m great.” You’re not going to tell her the details of your life so she can turn around and flap her mouth about you to anyone who’d listen.

“Really?” She tilts her head. “You look like you haven’t had a good night’s rest in three months.”

Chris brushes against the back of your shoulder as he sets a plate of pancakes in the middle of the counter. “I think she looks beautiful.”

She swoons, a dreamy smile overtaking her face as she drops her chin into the palm of her hand. “I wish my hubby was as romantic as you, Chris.”

He flashes the smile reserved just for her: lips pressed between paper-thin tolerance.

She gasps, slapping her hand on the counter as she looks at you. “You know what you need? A vacation. Let’s go up to your beach house—you, me and our hubbies.”

Chris grabs your hip under the counter, as if bracing himself at the thought of any extended time with her.

“What about the kids?” you ask.

She waves a hand. “That’s what grandparents are for. Besides, they’d love to have them for a few days. My in-laws are always begging to take Tanner off my hands.”

Your brain scrambles. “Now’s not a good time.” Shit, what can you say?

“It’s never a good time. Come on.” She winks. “I know you’re both wonderful parents. And Chris, you deserve a break. You are so gracious for raising another man’s child.”

He stiffens.

She snatches another strawberry, flicking her gaze to you. “Who’s Beatrice’s father again?”

“I am,” he says in a guttural voice, and you reach back to squeeze his arm.

She swallows the fruit. “No, I mean her _real_ father.”

“I’m her real father. I was there when she had RSV and stayed up all night taking care of her.” He leans forward, jabbing the countertop with a finger. “I was there when she took her first steps, and to encourage her to get back up when she’d fall. I tuck her in every night I’m here and read her bedtime stories. _I’m_ her father, so don’t you dare imply that I’m any less real because she didn’t come from me.”

She opens her mouth, eyes wide as they meet yours.

Your heart is in your throat, either from his impassioned speech or in anticipation of what Deanna’s going to say or do next.

Chris heaves against you with the force of his breath, his body tight and trembling.

She presses her lips together. “I think it’s Tanner’s nap time.”

“I think it is too,” you say quietly. “I’ll walk you out.”

She hops off the stool and wobbles on her feet. “Tanner, sweetie, it’s time to go.”

“No!” He starts to cry, stumbling away from Deanna’s approaching arms.

Beatrice’s mouth turns down. “Mama.” Her big eyes implore into yours. “No, no, no.”

Maya cries out from her play crib, and you turn to Chris, who’s pushing a finger and thumb into his eyes, mouth set in a grim line.

The two toddlers begin a tantrum, which upsets Maya. Their cries are loud and haunting, pulling at your heartstrings. Dodger joins in with howls of his own.

You and Deanna step into the playpen, and while she grabs her son, you pick Maya up. You run a comforting hand over her head as she whimpers, leading them to the front door.

Tanner struggles in Deanna’s grip, banging his fists against her arms, but she doesn’t seem fazed by his attacks.

“I’m sorry,” you utter to her as she passes. She turns around, Tanner kicking and reaching out for Beatrice. “I’ll, um… text you later, okay?”

She blinks.

With an apologetic smile, you wave and toe the door closed.

“I want _Mama_ ,” Beatrice shrieks, the harrowing sound echoes throughout the house, and Maya whines, squirming against you.

You make soothing sounds. “It’s okay, baby girl.” You press kisses to her forehead. “You’re all right.”

Back in the kitchen, Beatrice is sitting on the countertop, her legs dangling over the edge and face buried in Chris’ chest as she clutches his shirt in her fists. There’s a heavy frown weighing down his glazed eyes.

“Chris,” you say, walking toward them.

Beatrice pushes away and twists around. “Mama!”

He frowns down at her. “Bee,” he says softly, rubbing a hand over her back.

“No!” She slaps his hand away.

“Beatrice,” he says again, this time firmer, and takes her hands in his. He bends so they’re eye-to-eye. “Hey, no hitting. I see you’re upset, and that’s okay, but—”

She pulls out of his grip and grabs for you as soon as you’re within her reach. “I want my Mama, not you!”

His face falls, and your heart breaks.

You hand Maya over to him, and she cuddles into his embrace. He cups the side of her head and pushes his nose into her hair. “I’m gonna take Maya for a nap,” he mutters and marches out of the kitchen.

“Bee,” you say softly.

She sobs, wet eyes squinting up at you as fat tears roll down her face. “Mama,” she cries throatily.

You hug her, and she shoves her face into your chest.

Her gut-wrenching cries are muffled, little body jerking against you with the force of her sobs. The walls have absorbed so many tantrums, some days you swear you hear it howling back throughout the house late in the night when you’re curled up alone in bed.

You let her cry it out until she’s hiccuping and snivelling. “How are you feeling?” You pull away and wipe her face with the end of your shirt, mopping up the tear treks and snot pooling above her upper lip.

Her face scrunches up. “I’m angry,” she says in a rasping voice.

“Yeah? I can see that,” you say softly, pulling out the stool to take a seat, and flank her thighs with your arms. “Why are you angry?”

“Because!” She mutters gibberish, her words tumbling out together.

“Because you wanted to play with Tanner some more?”

“Yeah.” She rubs an eye and hiccups.

“Okay.” You keep your voice relaxed and sympathetic despite the tornado of emotions swirling in the pit of your stomach. ”You know, you’re allowed to feel angry and sad that your friend had to go. But you know what you’re not allowed to do? You can’t hit Papa.”

She mumbles out more indistinguishable words.

“I know, baby.” You smooth thumbs across her damp cheeks as Chris returns. “Papa’s sad because you hit him.”

He meets your gaze with the chaos of the last half hour lingering in his expression.

Beatrice hiccups and bleats shakily as he stops at the end of the counter.

“Do you want to help him feel better?”

She nods, and you pull to a stand so he can take your place. You squeeze his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she says hoarsely. She frowns up at him through clumpy eyelashes and reaches up. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

Chris swipes his eyes. “I forgive you.” He wraps big arms around her hips, and she kisses him.

**~ &~**

An hour later, with Beatrice exhausted and tucked in bed for a nap, you set out to find Chris.

He’s out on the deck, slumped in one of the lounge chairs and staring down at his phone. There’s a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the table in front of him.

Beside his chair, Dodger sits up as you approach, and you run a hand over his head and prop yourself on the edge of the table.

He squints up at you. “She okay?”

“She spent about five minutes sobbing on the potty, but she’ll be fine.” It doesn’t get a smile, so you sigh. “When she wakes up, she’ll be your sweet girl again.”

He tosses his phone on the table, braces elbows on his knees and scrubs his face. “What a shitty morning.”

“It’s par for the course with toddlers.”

“I’m not talking about Bee.”

“Deanna didn’t…” _mean it_? “She’s just…” _a gossip_. You wince. There’s really nothing you can say about her that would make him feel better.

His expression darkens. “She pissed me off. I’m sick of everyone implying—”

You place a hand on his shoulder. “I know, baby. I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter what other people think.”

“But it matters to me what _you_ think.” He frowns up at you. “What Bee thinks.”

“The only time I’d use ‘step’ and ‘dad’ in a sentence is when I’d say that you saw Bee needed a dad and stepped up.” You smile, cupping his cheek. “You’re her father. Full stop.”

He tugs you onto his lap, and you wrap your arms around him. He sniffles into the space between your shoulder and neck.

“As for what Bee thinks, you’ll have to talk with her. But she loves you so much.”

He nods.

“I’m gonna get some things done while they’re napping.” You cup the back of his head. “What kind of sandwiches are you going to make? I’m gonna head to the store soon.”

“I’m not in the mood for the park.” He pulls back. “Don’t feel like it anymore.”

“Let’s go anyway. It’ll lift your spirits. Maya can show you her rolling trick.”

He smiles. “I watched that video a million times.”

“The part when Maya started to give up so Bee cheered her on.”

“I melt, every time.”

“So?” You smooth a hand over his hair. “Park?”

“All right. You go get the groceries, and I’ll smash through as many chores as I can until Maya wakes up.”

**_~ &~_ **

With no kids to juggle, fight to put back unhealthy food or toys, or to soothe from a tantrum while avoiding eye contact with other shoppers, you reverse the car into the garage an hour later. Through the windshield, you wave at Chris and Maya waiting in the doorway.

He pulls the bottle away from her mouth and utters something to her, and she wriggles in his hold, clapping her hands together clumsily.

You pop the trunk and hop out of the SUV.

She gives you a toothless smile, getting more squirmy as Chris draws further into the garage, where you meet at the trunk.

You brush a finger over her cheek. “Good afternoon, sleepyhead.”

He hands her over to you and grabs a couple of bags to bring to the kitchen, where you set her up in her high chair so you can begin unpacking.

On his second round back, he sets the last of them on the counter and heards you away. “Why don’t you grab a power nap while I finish this off and make lunch?”

“I’ll help.”

“Babe, I heard you get up last night to feed Maya. You deserve a little break.” He pecks your forehead. “Go. I’ll wake you when Bee’s awake.”

Up in the master bedroom, you crawl into bed, and no sooner do you close your eyes do you open them up again.

You reach for your phone. You were asleep for twenty minutes, and you stretch, refreshed, if not, a little hungry.

You change out of your shirt and into a clean one before padding out. Beatrice should be awake by now, especially if you want to go to the park for that lunch.

Her bedroom door’s ajar, and her giggle spills out. It brings a smile to your face, and you lift a hand to push the door open, when Chris’ voice stops you.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Secret,” Beatrice murmurs, her nose scrunched.

“You’re my best friend, Bee.”

The curtains are closed, casting the bedroom in a murky grey. Chris’ frame is hunched over her smaller one where they’re seated on the window nook.

Beatrice fiddles with the collar of his shirt.

He rubs her belly to grab her attention, and she blinks up at him. “You’re my extra special girl, you know why?”

She shakes her head.

“Because I chose you.” He smoothes a hand over her head. “You probably don’t remember the day I first met you because you were so small.”

Beatrice giggles. “I’m three, Papa.”

He smiles, cupping her cheek and swiping a thumb across the tip of her nose. “Yeah, you’re getting so big. The moment I laid eyes on you, I promised to love you forever and ever and ever.” A sobering expression awashes his face. “Nothing is going to change the fact that I’m your dad, not the law or biology. Do you know why? You’re my daughter. You’re mine.”

“You’re _mine_ ,” she says. Even seated on his lap she has to tilt her head back to look at him.

“That’s right.” He gathers her in for a hug.

Your chest is light with relief and tenderness as you leave them to their moment to go in search for Maya.

She’s in the kitchen on her high chair, dressed in a pineapple print dress. At the sight of you, her face lights up with a huge, drooling grin. A picnic basket sits out of reach on the counter beside her.

As you get closer, she squirms, waving her fists and kicking her legs.

You smile. “What are you doing here all by yourself? Did Papa forget you?”

She coos on a harsh breath, face pinch under the force of her grin.

You pick her up and blink at the baby cam beside the picnic basket.

“I didn’t forget her,” comes Chris’ wry voice.

You laugh. “You coming down or what? It’s prime sun time.”

“Yeah, yeah. Be right down.”

You pick up Maya and the picnic basket and make your way to the garage.

Footsteps thunder down the stairs with flashes of Beatrice’s giggles. She’s tipped sideways, her legs flailing as Chris bounds down in chino shorts and a plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows. She holds onto the brim of his NASA cap overwhelming her head.

By the door leading to the garage, sits the diaper bag and your tote.

“Dodger,” Chris calls, placing Beatrice on her feet at the foot of the stairs. “Where are ya, buddy?”

“Where ya, bubba?” Beatrice shouts.

You reach for the leash on the hook by the front door as Chris shoulders the bags and opens the door.

Dodger’s clicking nails scurry over, bushy tail flopping about. He attacks Beatrice with licks, and she falls on her butt with squealing laughs.

You tuck the picnic basket against the back of the driver’s seat and buckle Maya into her car seat as Chris sets the bags on the passenger side floor. He grabs Beatrice while you usher Dodger into the trunk of the SUV, clipping on the leash to his collar.

In record time, you both climb into your seats.

(It would’ve taken you three times as long on your own, with Beatrice escaping to do something mischievous the second Maya stole your attention. At least the dog obeys commands.)

He starts the engine and shuffles the Disney playlist, and you click the garage door remote.

Beatrice clumsily sings along to ‘I’ll Make a Man Out of You’ while Maya stares at her with fascination. Behind them, Dodger pokes his head between the head rests.

As the garage door rolls up and the midday light pours in, you relax into the leather seat and let out a breath.

Chris glances over, reaching over to palm the back of your hand and bring them to rest on the gear shift. “You okay?”

You smile, closing your eyes against the blur of idyllic houses with their vivid front lawns. “I’m glad you’re home.”

His fingers slot through yours. “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> The ‘grumpy face’ idea was inspired by a MBMBaM ep 124: This Is Our Rumours.
> 
> The ‘Armadillo pee’ was inspired by [this Buzzfeed article](https://www.buzzfeed.com/mikespohr/29-kids-who-just-dont-know-how-to-talk-good).
> 
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> 
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